


The Private and Intimate Life of the Mortuary

by MrSpears



Series: Star Oracle [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Beating, Child Loss, Dark, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Is Gay, Hurt/Comfort, Impregnation, Incest, Intersex, It's not really supposed to be good, M/M, Masochism, Messy, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Parent/Child Incest, Pregnancy, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Self-Harm, Self-Indulgent, Trans Character, grotesque
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-29 01:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15719343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSpears/pseuds/MrSpears
Summary: Bravat was just a teenager when he finally escaped the grasp of his abusive father. But it did not take long for him to realize he may have been better off in the clutches of the mortician than on the streets trying to survive on his own. Incredible amounts of canon divergence. Nothing pretty.





	1. The Prince Who Did Not Become King

A candle burned low on the table beside a small bed, tucked so tightly into a corner that it looked as though it were attempting to disappear altogether. Bravat sympathized. The room was, otherwise, fairly standard and bare. There was a window that looked out onto the street; the dark window pane was cracked and some thin droplets of rain had managed to slip their way through. They trailed down the pale wall, leaving long streaks like tear-stains. Pathetically weeping. His client had drawn the moth-eaten curtains closed. A bare bandage swept over a seeping wound. 

There was a chair pushed up against a small writing desk. A bureau for clothing; and that was about all. A wash basin, but no water. Bravat took in every detail like it mattered. He was willing to focus on anything other than the man standing in front of him. Some barrel-chested brute not quite as tall as his father, nor quite as rich. But his purse was fat enough to tantalize. And after holding out all night for the right first client, he had eventually caved to what he had deemed _good enough._

Hunger had overridden dignity. And he was learning, very quickly, that a whore could only be so choosy. 

“Are you going to undress?” The brute had a rumbling voice like a carriage wheel getting caught in a rut. “Or do I need to help you?” 

Bravat finally pulled his focus back to the man in front of him. He shrugged small, delicate shoulders and lifted his hands to work on the buttons of his vest. He had considered, for a moment, advertising himself as a woman (all things considered down below), but the longer he had dwelled on the thought the more it had made him want to crawl out of his skin. No, better to real in a bloke who didn’t mind a bit of cock alongside his cunt. 

His client was getting worked up. Bravat wasn’t sure why – they had all night. Besides, he wasn’t in a hurry. He continued to unbutton his vest and then pulled it down his arms, tossing it over the back of the wooden chair and then starting in on his shirt. One item of clothing at a time. Slow, calculated movements. He had never undressed himself for bed before. His father had always… 

He had to stop thinking about his father, or he wasn’t going to be able to go through with this. He just had to keep breathing. Take it slow. Nothing ruined the mood like a panic attack. He was susceptible to them, more so than most people. 

“What’s the rush?” He finally asked, hating the sound of his own voice breaking the silence. “Are you worried I’ll run away, or something?” 

“No,” his client grumbled, covering the distance between them in a few strides. He smelled like – ugh, tobacco and sweat and pent-up sex, that smell that is distinctive to unwashed men who have been rubbing their desire out through their trousers all day. “I am just eager to have you.” 

Bravat was sure that somewhere, deep down, this man had convinced himself that that line sounded appropriately seductive. He let him have it, offering up a sweet smile as he let his shirt fall, baring an angelic sweeping collarbone and tantalizing white shoulders. His neck was long, dipping down into a deep hollow, and his Adam’s apple was so delicate it may as well have not existed. He did not have much of a chest, not like a woman, but it was enough to squeeze. Enough to pinch. Pink round nipples and small cupfuls of supple flesh bound together by satin skin. 

The man’s eyebrows went up but he didn’t comment. He held out a hand and brushed his fingers against one of Bravat’s coin-sized nipples, stroking it lightly until it hardened and goosebumps appeared on his flesh. Bravat was frozen in place, allowing it to happen, resisting the urge to strike the rough hand away. 

“To your liking?” He asked, his hands dropping down to his trousers. The man’s eyes fell with the motion, and his expression changed – hunger twisting the corner of his mouth and making his jaw tremble. His eyes were glassy with desire, their dull brown color glazed like the wide dead eyes he had seen staring up at him from the dark depths of his father’s coffins. 

Bravat shook his head. _No, no, not the mortuary, not your father…_ a hand came down across his face before he could even finish the thought. The blow surprised him more than it stung – he had been hit before, often enough and harder than that. But he had not expected… 

“You don’t shake your head at me,” the client’s voice had dropped down to a low snarl. Bravat’s blue eyes stretched wide and he tried to take a step back, but the large, rough hands with their big knuckles and ragged nails grabbed hold of his waistband, pulling him closer with barely an effort. 

“I didn’t, I wasn’t…” he tried to protest softly, knowing it wasn’t going to do him any good. He feared being struck again. Thankfully, the client seemed more interested in divesting him of his remaining clothing. Once his trousers were down the man grabbed hold of his hips – this man was easily 5’10” and Bravat was a good seven inches shorter, not to mention he was as lithe as a lily stem and just as easily broken. It took almost no effort for his client to fling him down – the bed was stiff as a board and did not give underneath the sudden weight. Bravat tried to put his hands underneath him and regain some advantage, to crawl backward at the very least; but he was not given the chance. His client grabbed him by the throat and two strong fingers applied just enough pressure to cut off his breathing. He could feel his own pulse pounding against the man’s fingers, desperate, a caged thing. 

“You have an interesting set,” the man said, slipping his free hand down between Bravat’s legs – pushing his fingers up against the small cunt and then trailing it upward towards the slender, sweet little cock (barely big enough to register as a ‘cock’ on most charts. Many would account for it as an enlarged clitoris, but he called it what he liked, and damned anyone who tried to dictate his vocabulary). 

_You have an interesting manner,_ he wanted to snip back. But he couldn’t. He could not even think as far as trying to form a sentence when he could barely breathe. Spots were starting to appear on his vision and he clawed at the hand pinning him down, dragging his nails over the thick skin. The man released his hold, only to bring that hand down across Bravat’s face again. He clipped the boy’s ear, that time – making his entire head ring. Bravat moaned, trying to roll over onto his side, but his client grabbed him and pinned him down on his back again.

“I am not going to pay if I can’t get what I want,” the man’s mouth was close to Bravat’s face and there was whiskey on his hot breath. As vile as it was, at least now they were speaking the same language. 

“What do you want?” Bravat gasped, still holding his face. His cheek was stinging. Still, it could have been worse. 

“Do you ever use that mouth of yours?” 

What an abhorrent and insulting question. “Of course.” 

“Then I want you on your knees. Now.” 

Finally. Bravat slipped off the bed and fell to his knees, the heavy impact against the wooden floor sending a sharp pain up to his thighs. He ignored it, looking up expectantly. The man grabbed his face, fingertips digging into his cheeks and forcing his lips apart. Bravat pulled his head back just enough to open his mouth the rest of the way, and the man’s fingers traveled up to his hair, gripping it by the root, a wicked pull. Bravat winced and opened his mouth wider, not even certain what he should expect. He knew his way around a cock, but he had only ever with… 

What met his mouth was not quite what he was used to. His father, his father, _god_ he had to stop making these comparisons. But it wasn’t as thick. Wasn’t as long. Some things were the same. The head was hot and when he slipped his tongue down the length of the shaft he could feel that thick vein thrumming, wet and heavy pounding as it begged for its release. It was thick enough to fill his whole (small) mouth, but not quite long enough to hit the back of his throat. It was both disappointing and a relief that his nose hit the man’s pubic hair before the cock could make him gag. 

Bravat finally started to get a hold of himself. He looked up, curling long, white fingers around the base of the man’s shaft (pulling back just slightly, to give himself something to grab). He sucked as hard as he could, rolling his tongue around the shaft, up and down the sides – pulling it around the ridge and flicking it over the textured head. The man’s groans were becoming somewhat grotesque – animalistic as his hard, heavy thrusts that kept pushing Bravat’s hand up against his chin, kept doing their best to dive for the back of his throat. It was irritating, how every attempt to apply his skill was thwarted in such a clumsy fashion. He eventually gave up, allowing his mouth to hang open, he let the man fuck him however he liked. 

It could have been mercifully short, but because of this client’s insistence on ruining his own pleasure, it dragged on far longer than it should have. Bravat’s jaw was getting tired. Overworked, he could feel saliva started to slip down his chin. He cringed to imagine the sight. The man was holding the sides of his face, now, grunting, pushing – his back was bowed at an awkward angle, his shoulders pushed against the bed. He gagged a little, when it got to bed too much, and the man started thrusting faster. Wiry pubic hair and sweaty thighs abraded his skin. Everything had that pent-up sex smell, and he hated it, god he hated it… 

Finally, finally – another sharp tug on his hair, so hard he could have sworn some of it was ripped out by the root. He yelped, and he felt that hard vein throb against his tongue one last time before his client emptied his release into Bravat’s mouth. It shot down his throat, hot and thin – a spouting of will, and nothing impressively thick. He gagged on it all the same but forced himself to swallow, making a show of licking the rest off the angry red head of the man’s cock and nuzzling it sweetly when he was done. 

“That’s all right, then,” the man huffed, each breath taking considerable effort after all of the energy he had expended humping the poor boy’s face. “Not bad.” 

Bravat felt a furious flush sweeping up his neck, setting his cheeks ablaze. _Not bad indeed._

“So happy to have pleased you,” he croaked dryly, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth. He felt disgusting. He wanted a bath. He was not even certain how to acquire one of those without going home. 

His father always bathed him afterward.


	2. Took Too Many Hits Coming Down

Clouds of sandalwood incense greeted Bravat at the door like two fingers shoving themselves down his throat. He gagged on the smell, attempting to make it discreet by lifting a crumpled crème-colored handkerchief to his face; covering his mouth and nose. He had taken the handkerchief from one of his last clients – a paltry recompense from being shorted an entire fifty pounds. 

It had been weeks – perhaps months, since he had passed through the dark mortuary doorway. When he left it behind he had sworn it would be for good. Up and down and backwards, as if a boy his age had any chance of surviving the gutters of London alone. At sixteen he should be considered – at least mostly grown. It was good enough for his clients. Maybe not ever good enough for his father. 

A dozen or more candles burned low, sultry and moody. Their flames sputtered over deep puddles of wax, guttural and hissing as the tiniest sweep of breeze from the partially opened door threatened to put them out for good. Bravat closed the door quickly behind him, which only made the incense stronger – and his claustrophobia worse. Dread clawed at his throat – it would have been easier if he ripped it all open himself and let his misery bleed out onto the floor. But he kept it all in. He always kept everything in so well. 

He picked his way carefully across the floor – past the rows of caskets, stepping over jars and beakers and whatever else was scattered carelessly close to the walls. He hated how his shoulder brushed against the stone – this shirt was as clean as it was going to be until he could do something about it, and he needed to look presentable, appealing – the wall was so dusty that the transfer was almost black. He could pilfer one, he supposed, from his old bureau. But he would have to do it without giving this father the satisfaction of knowing… 

A grating cackle shattered the silence that had been resting as heavily as the smoke. Bravat closed his eyes, unable to bring even his slightly raised foot to rest as he braced himself against the wall – diaphanous fingers splayed apart, ugly purple bruises blooming across the sharp knuckles. The cackle ended in a wheeze, a death rattle crackling in the throat of an expiring man. Bravat finally lowered his booted foot to the ground, sucking in a breath that sent his heart sinking, plummeting down to his bowels. 

“ _Sternenlicht_ – no knocking, no correspondence, no manners whatsoever.” That voice. It scrabbled and crawled like a lizard wedged between bricks. Thrashing. Furious. Slippery. Bravat felt it like lamp oil that had been poured on his skin, waiting to be set ablaze – long before he even spotted the tall shadow of his father, spilling its black stain onto the floors, the walls – wherever the candles would throw it. 

“You said I was always welcome back.” It galled him to say it. It was still his only defense. 

“I did, I did.” The Undertaker, the Grey Man…Edward, as his mother named him – materialized out of the cobwebs and curls of incense smoke as though he were comprised solely of faint, discarnate things. Heavy iron grey hair was braided down his back, black woolen robes swept the ground in his wake – heeled strapped boots clicked against the stone. “I burned a candle for you today, my child. My crystals told me you would return, although they could not say when.” He paused, inches away from Bravat – one hand snaking out to drag the tips of long dark fingernails over the curve of his pale cheek. “The vision of you I was given had far fewer bruises. I am certain they were concealing from me the shock of what you have allowed. You have been handled cheaply.” 

Bravat made a face, turning his head and pulling away from that grasp – his cheeks blazing with fury and humiliation. “I have been handled poorly.” Biting, pointed. 

“I suppose I should not be surprised. There is not a man in London who could presume to afford you.” Undertaker’s claw grasped Bravat’s small jaw. He forced the boy’s head up to meet his gaze, eyes as green and putrid as a cadaver. “And yet you throw yourself at them. A waste.” 

“I have to eat, somehow.” Bravat hissed. 

“Have I not fed you all these years?” Undertaker at least had the good grace to act offended. 

“I would rather beg at the devil’s feet than accept a scrap from you,” Bravat could feel the heat of his temper rising. Dangerous, he knew. They were so alike in many ways, and if it came to blows…his father would win. “I will suck every cock from here to Germany before taking another biscuit from your urn. I came here for a bath, and for clothes that are mine.” 

“That are yours,” Undertaker rolled that sentiment around on his tongue as if tasting it for the first time, the idea that Bravat owned anything at all. “With what money did you purchase these clothes? Surely not with pound notes and coin spat from your whore mouth. You will find, _sternenlicht_ , that they belong to me. Everything you have is mine. Your body is mine. You stole it from me, and now you rent it out to the proles as part of your vulgar melodrama. Your rebellion against me comes at a higher price than you do.” 

Bravat’s knees were shaking. He doubted he could hold himself up much longer – somehow feeling like the pressure of his hand against the wall was the only thing keeping him upright. “You are only angry because I have allowed other men to do to me as you have done.” There was less venom in his voice now. His voice was softening, his gaze lowering – thick black lashes sinking over sky blue orbs, and he could not decide whether or not it was intentional. His father had that effect on him. No matter how badly Bravat wanted to lash out, he always ended up succumbing… “But I am hardly spoiled for you. Whatever the price, if I can only beg a single night of your kindness…” 

Undertaker’s expression shifted – going from one impassable variation to the other. He moved his hand away from Bravat’s jaw, sliding it over the back of his head and burying it in his lavender curls. He brought Bravat’s head closer, pressing firm lips against his forehead. Up close, the sandalwood clung to his robes and mingled with the smell of formaldehyde. “My kindness is always for you, _sternenlicht_.” His free hand dragged down Bravat’s cheeks, long nails raking over satin skin, scraping faded bruises and following the line of the boy’s pounding jugular all the way down. Bravat gasped softly and closed his eyes, leaning forward so that his nose was pressed against his father’s chest. His stomach was churning. He felt like he was going to vomit. 

“I know,” he forced himself to say it. The worlds felt bitter and bad. Yellow gall staining his lying tongue. 

“You know,” Undertaker’s tone was mocking. His fingers swept underneath the collar of Bravat’s shirt, pulling it down and exposing skin. More bruises – dark purple and mottled blue, green halos around the ones that were beginning to heal. He pressed his mouth to each one, trailing his kisses along the path of his fingers. He slipped his other free hand underneath the fabric, ripping open the front completely until the shirt dropped to the floor. Bravat took a deep breath, his chest heaving. His heart was racing behind the bars of his ribcage – the rush of blood and the thick, hot incense enough to make him lightheaded. His head lolled, and his father’s hands trailed up his back. 

“Shoulders like wings,” Undertaker’s voice dropped, losing some of its creak in favor of a smokier sound. “A faery perhaps.” 

His little faery. His pretty enchantress. Bravat was everything magical. Everything beautiful. Until he was a slut, a whore…

“I don’t…maybe I shouldn’t.” His head was lolling. Everything felt so heavy. His whole body felt weighed down, even his hands trailing up his father’s chest did not feel like a light, easy movement. “I should just go, I have disturbed you enough…” 

“There will not be light outside for long,” Undertaker’s hand came to rest on the small of his back, and Bravat was pinned. “Stay.” The tall man did not wait for a response. He picked up Bravat, as easily as if he were a china doll, so that the boy’s legs were folded up and he rested easily in the crook of Undertaker’s arms. The mortician turned and started walking down the long, narrow hallway that led to the back of the shop – a short set of steps that sank down into a circular depression where his bed rested. The bed was enormous, easily able to accommodate three full bodies. There were so many candles – glittering like a sky full of stars. The smoky, golden haze enveloped the entire space, offsetting the heaps of black and dusky purple bedding. The soft blankets and pillows tumbled out of place with the weight of Undertaker’s knee on the side of the bed, and Bravat felt like he was falling – spiraling out of the sky like a shooting star as he tumbled out of Undertaker’s arms and fell into the smothering pile. 

“It smells overwhelmingly of you,” every word was rushed, skating by on a hurried breath. He rolled over onto his stomach and felt Undertaker’s hand on the small of his back again, holding him in place while the other hand slid down the back of his trousers – the band giving just enough for his father’s fingers to slide over the curve of his ass, dipping down the split and pausing to stroke the warm space before diving farther. Undertaker’s fingers slipped over Bravat’s cunt, and he smiled, a wretched grin as he pushed his fingertips deeper – nails scraping. Bravat swallowed a yelp and pushed his face into the blankets, bunching them up to try and cover his head. 

“Do you remember when it smelled like us?” Undertaker’s breath was hot against the back of his neck, sliding his tongue over the shell of Bravat’s ear, nipping with his sharp teeth. “Our bodies and our sex. You are so wet for me already, _sternenlicht_ , you cannot deny you missed me.” 

He was wet. He could feel how easily his father’s fingers slipped in and out, two of them moving back and forth with such shameless ease. It was disgraceful, but he could hardly help it. He wondered if it was as much a defense mechanism as it was the hot breath against his skin, the sensual touch against his back. 

“I don’t know if I can take you,” he finally admitted, his fingers clutching at the bedcovers. Panic was rising in his chest, closing his throat. God, he wasn’t sure if… “Please, please papa, I don’t know if I can…” 

“Shhh,” Undertaker worked his fingers in and out, ever caring, not going past the second knuckle at first – and then pushing himself deeper. “You stretch around my fingers so nicely, little darling.” He pulled Bravat’s trousers down completely, sliding them off thin white legs, tossing them into the abyss of the floor. Once they were free, Bravat spread his legs wide, whimpering as Undertaker added a third finger, pushing in all the way up to the third knuckle and twisting, thrashing them inside. “That is beautiful,” Undertaker crooned. “You are beautiful. Blood rushing, your cunt clenching around my fingers and your skin barely blushes. Pale as moonlight, as a doll. Laid out so beautifully on satin, as if you were in one of my coffins…” 

Bravat swallowed another despairing sound. He spread his legs even wider, clutching onto the blankets for dear life, as if the harder he clung the easier it would be to stop trembling. But he could not make himself stop shaking. 

He had to do this. Had to. This is where he belonged. This is what he had to do… 

Undertaker pulled his fingers away, and Bravat gasp. The sudden loss left his thighs aching. His cunt left to clench around nothing. He moaned, fighting the urge to squirm, but it was only moments before they were replaced by something else. Undertaker pressed his body closer, and Bravat felt the hot head of his cock press up against his slick cunt. He froze, panic taking over once again, his lips trembling, words staggering out broken… 

“No, no no, p-please, p-papa, please!” His small back arched. 

“Shh, shh.” Undertaker took hold of his hips, lifting them just a little, his cock pushing deeper, unrelenting. Bravat ground his teeth, feeling himself stretch – feeling Undertaker’s head piercing him, splitting him apart – enormous and insistent. It seemed like an eternity before he closed over the ridge, and he gasped – the first breath he had managed to take since his father started pushing himself inside. He tried for another quick, shivering breath – his father’s hands stroking his hips, fingers slipping over his soft skin. 

“Good,” Undertaker purred. “Good boy.” Another moment’s pause, and then he pushed the rest of himself inside – his thick shaft sliding in one inch at a time. Bravat felt like he was being stretched wider and wider, until he felt Undertaker’s bony hips pressed against his ass. He let out a small cry, and Undertaker pulled back, only a few inches sliding out – Bravat’s cunt ached, it stung, like he was being ripped open. His father pushed himself back inside – a hard, ruthless thrust – and a scream tore free from Bravat’s throat. He threw his head back down into the covers, clutching them, the fabric swallowing the rest of his cry. 

“There is blood on my cock,” Undertaker whispered. “You paint it gorgeously.” 

“I can’t breathe,” Bravat whimpered. “I can’t breathe, papa, it hurts…” 

“You love the ache, don’t you, _sternenlicht_? You love how it consumes you, deep inside, a lasting reminder…”

He was going to die. He was going to die in the bed, speared on his father’s cock. He wasn’t going to be able to take much more. He knew that. Undertaker’s fingers crawled underneath him, cold tips stroking his hot clit (cock!) and he felt himself squirming, grinding down on those fingertips, begging for release to find him. If he came, it would be over soon. His father would find satisfaction faster…

“Wetter and wetter for me, my dear child,” Undertaker raked his nails down Bravat’s cock, pushing himself so deep inside of his cunt that it burned. It ached. God, it hurt so badly. “You are going to release for me, aren’t you? I am going to tear this orgasm from you whether you like it or not.” 

“Yes,” Bravat gasped, licking his dry lips and nodding against the covers. He was grateful, at least, for how they buried his shame. “Yes, yes, I am going to release for you, papa, I am…”

“Such a good boy,” Undertaker applied more pressure, building, making tight circles. “Such a good boy for me…” 

It was getting to be too much. Bravat felt his release building, tightening, like a thread about to snap. He moaned and tried to push himself down further onto his father’s cock, feeling like another inch would rip him apart at the seams. He was soaked, but he couldn’t tell whether it was natural lubrication or whether it was blood… “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “I am…I am close, papa, papa please, papa I am…” 

“Yes, yes,” Undertaker laughed, that horrible, bone-chilling sound. “Yes, my little one…” 

Bravat’s cunt clenched around that thick, hard cock and his thighs tensed. Another scream, dragged from the depths of his throat, and he came. He released onto his father’s cock, drenching it, feeling the blankets underneath him get soaked. Undertaker continued stroking his lithe cock until his hips were bucking against his father’s hand, rubbing, pumping, desperate to get the last shivers of orgasm out. It ust kept coming. Swallowing him. One wave after another crashing into his entire body. 

When it passed, he felt like collapsing, but he was still being pinned. Undertaker wrapped one hand around his throat, squeezing that pale neck until Bravat saw darkness edge in on his vision. He pushed against his father’s hips, and Undertaker started to fuck him harder – pulling back and pushing himself inside, thrusting hard, deep, going faster and faster until his hips were crashing audibly into Bravat’s, skin against skin with monstrous, grotesque sounds. 

He was getting closer. Bravat could feel his need throbbing, buried so deep that it was like a second heartbeat. Undertaker pressed his mouth against Bravat’s shoulder, sinking his teeth into that satin skin, nearly biting all the way through – at least it felt that way. He didn’t break skin, but he was going to leave a nasty bruise. 

One final thrust, and Undertaker’s will flooded Bravat’s insides – hot and thick and unable to be contained within such delicate walls. There was so much that as soon as the older man started pulling his hips back it spilled out of Bravat’s cunt, dripping down his trembling thighs – mingling with the blood and his own release. 

Bravat closed his eyes and let his head collapse against the bedding. His breath was coming out in shallow gasps, and his father’s hand was stroking his hair – long nails scratching the scalp as he leaned over to press his lips against Bravat’s temple. 

“Perfect,” the old Shinigami muttered. “You are a perfect, darling boy.” 

Bravat nodded. He wasn’t one to disagree. Never disagree with his father. 

“I will give you a bath,” Undertaker said. “In just a moment.” 

Bravat nodded again, swallowing hard. A bath, yes. A hot bath would be so welcome. He was right. He remembered. His father always bathed him. 

He closed his eyes again, and did not recall a thing before opening them and seeing the candles extinguished – the darkness around him absolute. If he thought especially hard he could perhaps recall hot water, his father’s hands exploring every inch – soap and a rag and oils in the bath water. Incense burning in cages above his head. 

Bravat rolled over and his hand went out – but his father was nowhere to be found. The Undertaker was not next to him, which meant it had to be morning. Or well past. There were no windows, so it would be impossible to tell until he emerged. 

His hand landed on something else instead. Bravat lifted his head, glancing at the pillow next to him – resting on the pillowcase was a tightly wrapped stack of pound notes. Thicker than his wrist and more money that he would see for weeks. It galled him immediately and he recoiled – pulling his hand back close to his chest. Payment – for services rendered. It did not matter how destitute he was. If he accepted it, what his father had said about him would be true. He was just a whore, selling himself cheap.

He did not accept it. He would not accept it. He would not prove his father right. 

As if he had a scrap of pride left, swollen and burning between his legs.


	3. Getting High On Your Own Supply

A silver razorblade flashed, cutting lines through the fine white powder already piled onto the surface of the low wooden table. The pile was big enough to cover a shilling until it was reduced by that tactful blade. Bravat scraped at the rough surface until everything was a little neater, then set the blade down, smacking it against the tabletop.

“Ought you be a little more careful?” his father’s voice creaks like the hinges of a cheap casket. 

“Not worried about this table, are you?” Bravat spits back. “I know it has seen worse.” 

“Those scratches run deeper than your razor can go.” Undertaker brushed his cold fingers across the back of his son’s neck, long nails scratching at the red welts that are already there. He got carried away with his strap the night before. The blow had landed too high…but the restrains riveted to the walls had made it almost impossible for Bravat to do anything other than cry out and thrash. “Your nails are deadly, _sternenlicht_.” 

Bravat closed his eyes against the image of only a few nights ago, when his father had thrown him down on this table and his nails had cut deep tracks in the soft wood. The price for his nights of refuge here were getting steeper. And yet he found himself crawling back more and more often, lately. It was just so much harder than he ever thought it would be. “Stop,” he said softly, more of a plea than a command as he lifted his hand to brush away Undertaker’s hand. “They hurt.”

“I am amazed you were able to crawl from bed.” Undertaker cackled, and Bravat shrank even further into himself; picking up the tarnished silver instrument that rested by his pile and rolling it between his fingers before blocking one nostril by pressing against the flared cartilage. 

He inhaled, deeply, and a line of white powder vanished. He blinked a few times and snorted, rubbing at his dry nose.

“It hurts more to lay down,” he finally said. He barely remembered the night before. He remembered how the pain had left him with an ache deep in his bones, his chest drawn so tightly that he could barely breathe. He had vomited, but he couldn’t remember if he had made it over the side of the bed when his father finally uncuffed his wrists. Merciful after what felt like hours of brutality. After that, everything was white, and then black – and when he had woken up, his bed was cold. Undertaker was gone. And it was some odd hour of the morning where crying would have only made it worse. 

“You have taken my strap before, and you have walked upright the next day.” There was no small amount of scorn in Undertaker’s voice. “I do not think my heavy hand is to blame for your condition, _sternenlicht_.”

Bravat’s lip curled and he rubbed his nose again. “So, so then. What is to be blamed? Are you going to say I have allowed myself to become weak?” 

“No,” the grey man said. “But you have allowed yourself to become with child.” 

That hit him; more staggering than any blow. Bravat didn’t even process it immediately, tapping the end of his straw against the table. “I…” his head was throbbing. “That isn’t…” 

“I need you to tell me,” his father’s hand was against the back of his neck again. This time – a grip like steel. “If I am the only man who has taken you properly.” 

That icy grip was enough to stop his climbing high and his heart dead. He swallowed and nodded, the implications sinking into his chest like a knife. “Only you,” he said, breathless. “You have been the only one to…” Fuck him. “My clients always have my mouth, or my…” 

Undertaker crashed the back of his hand into Bravat’s head, a blow that sent his chin down, his whole upper body forward – slamming his chest into the side of the table. Bravat groaned and wrapped his arms around his stomach – he felt like he was going to vomit again. 

“I did not ask for sordid details, although I am certain you are eager to boast of them.” Undertaker snarled. “If there is even a chance of that child having another sire, I will rip it from your belly before you can catch your next breath. So I wish for you to consider.” 

“It is yours!” Bravat didn’t mean to scream, but it just came out that way. Ragged and desperate. “It is, I…how can you even tell?” He cringed, expecting another blow. 

“Fathers know these things.” Undertaker pulled his fingertips up Bravat’s temple, following the line of thin, invisible veins up into his hair. “It is not as if I have not harbored the intent all along, _sternenlicht_ , and worked my craft to make it possible for you. I feared you would be sterile, and either you are full of surprises as always, or you have my potions to thank.” 

Nothing was real. Nothing was registering. His ears were ringing and he could barely hear his father over the sound. “I am going to die,” he muttered, not sure if he was actually speaking, because his whole tongue felt numb. “This is going to kill me…” 

_I am not going to bear your child._ He wanted to scream it at his father. But he knew better. Undertaker would chain him to the bed until he bore the wretched thing and then dismember him piecemeal. 

Compliant, for a few months perhaps he could beg some leniency. Perhaps his father would handle him far gentler. But if the previous night was any indication, it was no doubt a fool’s fantasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny, pretty lackluster update. Hopefully tomorrow's will be better.


End file.
